Requiem

This blood in a chipped china cup is mine,
The pattern round the rim is of birds in flight,
Frail bodies brushed against a dull white sky.

One counterpunch thrown at the perfect time,
My arms growing heavy, I dropped my right,
This blood in a chipped china cup is mine.

My left arm burning from all those jabs to his eyes,
The plan I execute rarely fails in a fight,
Frail bodies brushed against a dull white sky.

When I felt the canvas fall away at the time,
My feet fell above me and blocked out the light,
This blood in a chipped china cup is mine.

You practice execution, become surgically precise,
Twist hard with your glove, more blood blurring his sight,
Frail bodies get brushed against a dull white sky.

In the end inept luck beats you some of the time,
Leaves you sick the next morning for wondering why.
This blood in the chipped china cup is mine,
Frail bodies brushed against a dull white sky.

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